The World of Weyard
by CombatWombat
Summary: Two thousand years before the Lighthouses are lit, a hero embarks on a quest to find the legendary Sol Blade and save his people; an immortal man comes to grips with his destiny; a killer earns redemption; a prince accepts his fate as ruler.
1. Prologue

His hair was blue like the sky when the snowclouds parted, but there was silver in it too: steel. It shone like a sword encased in ice, shorn off at his chin.

Zephyr marveled at the amount of blood Ares' body contained as he stood, broadsword dangling in his hand, blood running in rivulets down its surface. The blood on the snow steamed, and vapor rose from his sword, too, as it condensed and frosted over.

"Zephyr? What did you do?" Kuru's voice was frantic.

He heard Kuru behind him and turned away from the decapitated corpse, breath coming in gasps. _I didn't – didn't mean to – not my fault – not me,_ he thought of saying. But that was ridiculous. No one would believe a story like that. Not when Ares's blood was on his sword. No one could know. He would just say they both had attacked him.

His sword flashed and glinted as he leapt at the other Aelar, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

"Shit!" was all Kuru said as he stepped back and put the haft of his spear in front of his chest to block. The wooden pole splintered as Zephyr's sword made impact and it drove downward, cleaving into Kuru's chest. Zephyr planted his boot on the dying man's chest as he lay in the snow and yanked hard, freeing the broadsword and sending up a thin red mist that quickly froze and drifted down again.

He paused, spat on Kuru's face, then, gathering his cloak tighter around himself, ran.

An Aelar flanked him on either side, holding his arms and pushing him through the doorway into the tribunal. A third Aelar marched behind holding a spear.

They had caught him as he fled. The game was up, all right. He'd heard the guards talking outside last night: they said everyone thought he did it and would say so. They said he would be executed.

Then, as the guards walked him to the center of the domed wooden chamber, they let go of his arms and said, "Elder, we've brought him."

The Elder studied him from his elevated granite podium. It gave Zephyr a chance to look around.

There were people all around him, on all sides, standing, watching; people he'd known all his life. Auren, Jash, Kelena, Gelelr. There was wizened old Melekr here, and over there Hana's little boy Spheros stood holding his mother's hand.

"Zephyr," the Elder said, "you stand accused of murder."

Zephyr nodded. There didn't seem to be much else to do.

"Do you wish to contest these charges?" the Elder asked.

Here was his chance. He'd been thinking about this all night, and it was the only way he could think of to get out of here alive. "They attacked me, sir. They tried to kill me. I –" he stumbled "- I _had _to fight back, sir."

The Elder lifted his bushy white eyebrows. "Ares _and_ Kuru?"

"Ares and Kuru," Zephyr confirmed. "Both of them."

"Interesting," the Elder said, rubbing his chin. He looked at one of the guards who had dragged Zephyr inside. "Bring me Sera."

Sera, as it turned out, was a woman not more than sixty years old – middle-aged, by Aelar standards – with flowing green hair streaked with copper. She was rather plump.

She stood in front of the Elder, between him and Zephyr. "Tell me what you saw," the Elder said.

"Three young men were outside in the street," she began. "I saw them while I sewing. When I looked up again, one of them had his sword out. I kept watching and I saw the one who had his sword out cut off one of the other's head. The third one tried to talk to him, then he killed him too, and ran."

The Elder flicked his eyes to Zephyr for a moment, then fixed them again on Sera. He pointed his hand at Zephyr. "Is that the murderer?"

Sera looked Zephyr full-on in the eyes. "That's the murderer," she agreed.

His hands were clenched and his teeth grinding against each other. His fingernails dug painfully into his skin. All that, all that thinking. And a woman had seen the whole entire thing!

Shit. Was this his life? Would they kill him now? Shit. He'd never really thought about dying before, but now that he faced the very real possibility, he thought about it a lot. What would happen?

Was there an afterlife?

Zephyr realized he would go down in history as a villain, as an evil man, a petty evil man who killed his friends with no motive.

But … that was what he was. He _had_ killed Ares for no reason. Ares had been insufferable about his skill with the bow and bringing down that deer from three hundred yards away – it had been a fluke shot, nothing more, both Zephyr and Kuru told him – but Ares hadn't shut up. He was going to be this and that, he would make up for whatever Kuru and Zephyr didn't shoot with his skill. He would single-handedly save Aelarune from starvation this winter, he said.

Well, he was dead now and he wasn't saving anyone. And Kuru had died because Kuru had seen what Zephyr did.

The Elder heaved a heavy sigh. "Zephyr," he said, waving Sera to the side. "Come forward." When Zephyr was only five feet away, the Elder held up a hand for him to stop. "You are a liar, Zephyr. You are a murderer."

The Elder squared his shoulders and took Zephyr's broadsword. He could barely lift it, so old and frail was he. "Zephyr, you are guilty of the murder of Ares and Kuru."

"What is my punishment?" Zephyr could barely ask.

"You are banished, Zephyr. You are Branded. Never return."

A murmur spread through the crowd at this.

"Zephyr _Darkblade," _the Elder named him, "that is your new name, so that all may remember the darkness in your sword and your heart. You are banished. You are forsaken forever, murderer, Creature of the Void. Leave now. Never return."

The Elder raised his arms, eyes closed, chanting.

"_By the powers granted me by Sol,"_ the Elder began, the people of Aelarune following him in a trailing echo, _"you are banished. By the purity of Anemos, you are forsaken. By the vision of Ael, you are broken."_

He opened his eyes, staring into Zephyr's.

"Leave."

The crowd parted for Zephyr Darkblade, and he was out the door, running past the houses, the memories, the snowy roofs and whiteswept streets. He would not return to Aelarune for twenty-two years.

(I hope that was enjoyable – please tell me what you think, and if you find any errors or discrepancies or anything be sure to tell me. Although 2,000 years gives me a lot of leeway, so keep that in mind. Thanks for reading!)


	2. Faraway Flames

Sparkles, nightflakes, the Faraway Flames: the stars littered the sky like crushed diamond on velvet, and they _shone, _too.

Spheros had the window unbarred and thrown wide open, the wind slashing inside and biting savagely at his face, swirling the curtains while he clutched a blanket tight around himself.

It was cold, yes. But it was also home.

This was it. This was the last night. He wondered briefly if he would ever come back – ever feel the frost on his cheeks again – ever feel the numbness of his feet. Melekr said it was warm in the Southern Lands, and that they should pack accordingly.

He had a few cloaks bundled in his pack, along with some dried meat, tunics, pants, gloves, rope and another pair of boots. But most importantly, he had the map.

He heard Tes creak the door open and come inside.

"I have to go," he said. "Please don't try to persuade me not to."

She was beside him. "How did you know?"

He smiled at her. "I know you, Tes."

And as she looked at him, her eyes were pearly, gleaming bright.

She sighed. "You're very brave, Spheros. Is that what you want me to say? Do you want to me say you were the bravest, most honorable, most altruistic Aelar ever? That you were the perfect martyr? Well, maybe you are. But Spheros," she said, and as she turned her head up to him, her eyes were pearly and silvery, "I don't care about that."

"What do you care about, then?"

"I care about _you,_ Spheros," she said, and then she cried.

When she was done, when he had held her, and whispered to her ear he loved her, when he held her more after that after the wind came up, hard and cold, he said, "we can't go on like this. We are too many and the animals too few. We've hunted them out, Tes."

He took her hands. "It is said that we have always been nomads. We are the descendents of Anemos, Tesah. He was the first wanderer. We share his blood. We are of the blood of Sol. We are the descendents of Ael, the dissenter, who took again to wandering. We are the descendents of Kurouu.

"We are strong, Tes, but we are wanderers, too. I think the time has come for us to move on."

"But there's nowhere else to go," she whispered to the night.

"Then I will make a place," he promised her. "I swear it, Tesah. By Sol, by Anemos, by Ael, I swear I will save us – save _you._"

He turned to face the wind and the line of clouds in the distance.

"I have to do this, Tes. I wouldn't trust anyone else."

A glitter of snowflakes fell on the group as their boots imprinted the snowy street. All along the sides of the road, in windows, leaning on fencing, just watching: faces. Eyes. The Aelar.

They were four who set out from Aelarune to save their people.

Spheros, at the front of the group, the youngest at thirty-seven years, had red hair with threads of gold like auric fire. His irises were orange like the very middle of a flame. He wore a broadsword over his cloak, the handle peeking over his right shoulder. His hood was drawn over his head, and his long hair spilled out onto his tunic.

Gelelr came second. He was seventy, a veteran warrior using his spear as a walking stave to help him keep steady in the ankle-deep snow. He was clean-shaven with a thin, bony face and a sharp hooked nose. His hair was yellow.

Flauros came third, her purple hair shimmering in the snowlight, a white cloak pulled tight around her and a longsword and a quiver of arrows at her right hip. She carried a strung bow around her shoulders.

Last came Melekr, white-haired, wizened, olive green cloak flapping wildly. Flauros walked beside him holding his arm, helping him along. He was a Runic, a Rune-Sage.

As they journeyed, rested, journeyed, and Aelarune faded to a glimmer on the white horizon, they all looked to the Southern Lands and to their salvation.

"We save ourselves with the blood of others," Flauros murmured.

"The road to redemption is paved with blood," responded Melekr.

Spheros noticed the Runic didn't say whose blood would be paving it, but said nothing, staying at the forefront of the group, head held high, trudging along. That night, when they spread their cloaks on the still snowy ground and slept, he took first watch.

He sat on a rock near the edge of a cliff overlooking a wide gorge with a frozen river through the center and dark trees on either side. He looked north, and found himself thinking of Tes, her midnight-gold hair, her funny hooked nose and that dimple on her cheek, the way she laughed, the way they talked about having a family some day.

"I don't want to be a martyr," he said to nobody, and bowed his head and did something he hadn't done since he was a boy.

Spheros, the Savior of Aelarune, began to cry.


End file.
